Tisn't the Season
by freudian fuckup
Summary: Christmas in July.


The tree was, in its own way, sort of oddly beautiful. Initially, Arthur had been wary of the whole idea, but Merlin had insisted. Christmases, in the Pendragon family were tightly scheduled affairs, with lots of networking parties and meticulously posed family photographs that would, inevitably, end up collecting dust on Uther's mantle. According to Arthur, that was just how posh people celebrated peace on Earth and goodwill towards men.

Merlin had other ideas.

Which is how it came to pass that one afternoon in July Arthur had come home to find their flat littered with decaying cardboard boxes, each meticulously labeled on all six sides in Hunith's meticulous scrawl. To his eternal credit, and with some rather sacrilegious persuasion on Merlin's part, Arthur had managed to embrace the spirit of the, well, of _a_ season, with gusto. By the twenty-fifth (chosen mostly because it was a Saturday), he had not only purchased a menagerie of cheap, electric lawn-animals (most with red noses, despite Merlin's sound argument that that made no bloody _sense_, in response to which Arthur merely pointed at the calendar), but had at some point, without Merlin's encouragement or consent, crafted a Yule log centrepiece out of a watermelon, complete with candles.

"You're doing it wrong," Arthur said with thinly veiled impatience. His voice sounded like it was checking its watch.

"I'm doing it how I like it done," Merlin shot back, muscles straining as he reached for a high bough on the unreasonably large tree Arthur had dragged home one afternoon (when Merlin had politely inquired as to just where the fuck he'd found a tree in _July_, Arthur had gotten very quiet and then very handsy).

"So, you like it done incorrectly?" Arthur asked innocently, his outstretched fingers twitching with the desire to take over.

"There's not—look, I'm hanging lights, not disarming a bomb. Just help me fix it and we can have breakfast," Merlin grunted, stretching to shove the fallen string of multicoloured lights back into place.

"Oh, stop that before you strangle yourself," Arthur snapped, pushing Merlin out of the way with his hip.

"I'm taller than you, you know," Merlin said, folding his arms as he watched Arthur flail and hop.

"Yes, but only one of us has a history of grievous tree-related injuries," Arthur replied, managing at last to sort out the rogue lights.

"That was _one_ time, and I was nine," Merlin whinged. "I should never have introduced you to my mother," he added with a touch of bitterness.

Arthur laughed, backing up to admire his handiwork and dragging Merlin with him by the elbow. "Hunith _loves_ me. Says I'm doing you a world of good," he said smugly.

Merlin frowned. "She's my mother, she still likes me better," he said as Arthur moved behind him and wrapped his arms around Merlin's chest.

"I suppose someone has to," Arthur muttered into Merlin's shoulder.

Even the concept of _buying_ a tree and then decorating it _one's self_ was foreign to Arthur, for whom trees had always just appeared, tall and lush and tastefully decorated, on the first of December. Merlin caught him one afternoon with a macaroni and glitter ornament, a remnant of Merlin's childhood, turning it over and over in his hands, like it was a puzzle to be solved. And Merlin's heart had broken a little then, at the sight of him cross-legged on the unlit hearth and lost to the world, until he'd put the ornament aside and pressed Arthur into the carpet, kissing away whatever ghosts lingered in the thick summer air.

"Is this it, then?" Arthur asked, propping his chin on Merlin's shoulder.

"Is what it?" Merlin replied.

"Is this what Christmas was like for you. Growing up," Arthur said casually.

Merlin snorted. "I suppose. Minus the bloody huge tree. And the heatstroke I nearly had digging those ornaments out of my mother's cellar." Arthur leaned in closer, his stubble rough against Merlin's neck, because Merlin had insisted that shaving before presents was deeply wrong. "But yeah, I think I've made my point." He felt Arthur chuckle, then let out a small, content sound that made Merlin's chest tighten.

A second later, Arthur straightened and cleared his throat. "Well, I'm glad it lives up to your expectations," he said.

Merlin turned, leaving Arthur's arms firmly in place and wrapping his own around Arthur's neck. "And what about yours?"

Arthur stared off to the side for a moment, a gesture of discomfort Merlin had learned to identify early on, then stepped even closer, if possible, and touched their foreheads together. "Well, we've been up almost half an hour and no one's taken my picture or tried to stuff pine-needles up my nose."

"Morgana?"

"Who else?" He let out a huff of laughter, warm and minty against Merlin's face. "It's got one thing going for it, though," he said seriously.

"Hmm?" Merlin replied softly, absently brushing his nose against Arthur's cheek.

"The Christmases I remember didn't usually devolve into filthy sex on the living room floor," Arthur said, matter-of-factly.

Merlin laughed and pointedly ignored Arthur's hand cupping his arse.

"And what makes you certain this Christmas will?" he asked, edging his leg between Arthur's thighs.

Arthur smiled, lewd and unpractised, his hair a halo of rumpled gold around his face, his hips grinding against Merlin's in an unhurried rhythm. Without a word, he tilted his head back so that Merlin felt compelled to follow his gaze.

A small sprig of holly swayed gently in the air-conditioned breeze.

"So what do you say?" Arthur asked after Merlin had finished giggling and kissing him in turns. "Have I been good this year? Do I get to open my present?" His hands were already halfway up the back of Merlin's shirt and showed no signs of stopping.

"Good? Absolutely not," Merlin said sternly, and Arthur froze, his face awash lust-addled disappointment. Merlin grinned and tugged his shirt over his head, then whispered into Arthur's ear, quiet and dirty, "lucky for you it's not really Christmas."


End file.
